Chapter 18
18
R HAIF HATED SUMMER, especially in the sweltering stifle of Anvil.
As the first bell of Eventoll rang throughout the city, he hurried down a shadowed alley that cut from one street to the next. He huddled under a mud-beige light-cloak that brushed his ankles and wore sandals to keep the heat of the cobbles from burning his soles. He hurried along with the cowl of his cloak’s hood low over his eyes. He looked like many of the day-laborers hunching their way home, or night-staffers sullenly heading the other way.
Few, if any, lifted their faces.
Like him, the entire town sought to hide from the Father Above. The sun sat near to its highest point in the eastern sky as midsummer approached. Though that significant moment was still another three days off, a few houses already had bright bows framing windows or were decorated with oil lamps glowing behind glass shades tinted in crimson and purple, trying to bring a measure of cheer to the gloom. The celebration to come—the Midsummer Bloom—was an attempt to falsely brighten the grimmest time of the year. For Rhaif, it always struck him as the height of submission, marking how readily the townspeople accepted the sullen order of Anvil.
What’re ya gonna do? was as common as Good morrow or Sard off here in Anvil. Like an ox beaten so often that it learned to ignore the strike of a driver’s club, the townspeople simply grew hardened to their sorry state. They trudged from one day to the next, until they were finally laid low in an early grave in the burning sands. It was a small mercy that few of them ever lived past their fortieth birthyear.
And the cause behind such an early demise was plain with each breath.
Rhaif tugged the linen scarf higher over his mouth and nose, a veil that all the townspeople wore to filter the soot and smoke that threatened to prematurely blacken a lung. The deathly pall hung most heavily during the stretches of summer, when there was nary a breeze off the sea. And rather than shade the sun’s heat, the black blanket only trapped it closer, smothering the city.
Rhaif cocked an ear to the low roar that continually sounded throughout the city, what was dubbed the Grumble of Anvil. Its source was the same as the pall of soot and smoke. Hundreds of huge belching chimneys and flaming stacks—like the war-towers of some great siege—rose all around. They marked the city’s countless smelters, refineries, forges, and gas distilleries. All of the mines across the Guld’guhl territories shipped their wares to Anvil. The city was the hard iron upon which the raw ores, rocks, and salts were hammered against—before finally being shipped around the Crown.
Rhaif reached a larger street and slipped into the sullen drift of the crowd, picking the side heading upward. Here, bright Bloom garlands were strung across the way. Many were lined by tiny upraised flags, representing the sails of the thousand ships coming and going from Anvil, whether by sea, like the thick-beamed ore-trawlers, or by ethereal winds, like the gas-filled giants that safely ferried precious jewels over the pirate-riven waters.
As if summoned by this thought, a wyndship passed overhead, gliding through the black pall. It was headed toward the docks of Eyr Rigg, the tall ridgeline marking the easternmost border of Anvil. He gazed longingly for several steps.
If only…
He lowered his face again from such lofty heights and returned his gaze to the street. He knew the homes and shops to either had been constructed of white marble and topped by roofs of clay tiles in shades of blue and deep reds, all the better to reflect the shine of the Father Above. Though that was no longer the case. Centuries had layered soot over the walls and muted any brightness to a drab dullness. Only during the all-too-brief midwinter Freshening, when the winds would finally kick up and blow the worst of the pall away from the city, did any of the townspeople try to scrub away the filth. Still, it was a futile effort, as the winds always died and the pall returned to settle heavily again. While most sang their relief to the gods during each Freshening, Rhaif was not fooled. To him, the winds were merely the gust of a bellows, which cleared the smoke only to allow the fires to burn hotter.
As he zigzagged through streets and alleys and up crumbling steps, he climbed higher and higher away from the port. Finally, just as the second bell of Eventoll rang out, he passed under a pointed arch formed by the crossing of two large hammers and entered the large central square of Anvil. Tall buildings towered on all four sides. To the left was the Crown Mynt, where coins of the realm were forged and protected behind walls of iron and steel. Directly ahead was Judgement Hall, which was the bailiwick of Anvil’s sheriffdom. Flags hung to either side of its doorways, one emblazoned with the Guld’guhlian crossed hammers and the other with the crown and sun of the Kingdom of Hálendii.
Rhaif kept his face even lower as he skirted to the right, keeping to the milling throngs as shifts changed from day to night. He also hunkered lower, with a hunched back and a slight bend to his knees. He didn’t want his above normal height—due to his mixed blood—to make him stand out among the squat Guld’guhlians around him.
Still, he swore he could feel the piggish eyes of Archsheriff Laach peering down from his high office at those gathered below, searching for a certain thief in the city.
Just your imagination, Rhaif. Quit your shivering already.
He reminded himself that he had escaped discovery for nearly a fortnight after the train from the mines of Chalk had finally ground to a halt in Anvil’s yards. During the chaos of its unloading, he had stolen away, hurrying along the length of wagons, passing the two giant sandcrabs who steamed amidst the chaos of the yards as their armored carapaces were washed down to cool their heat. Their driver calmed them further with the soothing melodies of bridle-song, each gentle note winding its control down to the knot of brain beneath all that armor and muscle.
It had been a sad, plaintive melody, fitting for Rhaif’s return to Anvil. He had even paused to listen, to eavesdrop, recognizing the loneliness etched in the driver’s refrain. It had momentarily captured him, as surely as it had the pair of giant crabs. While such a talent was rare and well compensated, the bearers of such a skill were often shunned by others. As cities spread and lands were consumed, such a gentle connection to nature, to the wild corners of the world, was something to be scorned, a remnant from another era, when men struggled against tooth and claw, against ice and fire.
After a time, under the cover of steam and song, Rhaif had slipped off and vanished into the smoky shroud of Anvil. Of course, he had not arrived alone. The mystery that was the bronze woman had followed his steps, sticking to him like lodestone to iron.
She continued to remain as much of a riddle as ever. It didn’t help that he had to keep her locked in his room at a whorehouse near the port, where few questions were asked and no one bothered to look too closely at one another. She had also grown strangely sluggish, not speaking a word, barely moving, the glow in her eyes ebbing to a dim shimmer. He suspected it had to do with the smoky pall blanketing the city, shielding the sun’s blaze. As far as he could tell, the Father Above fueled her in some arcane way, and with His face mostly hidden here, she had faded like a Klashean rose in winter.
Her state was worrisome, but not as concerning as the threat of their recapture. He had considered simply abandoning her. It would have been far easier for him to escape Guld’guhl without that bronze anchor dragging behind him. But he could not. He would not be free now without her aid back in Chalk. He pictured what would have happened if he’d been caught: his impaled body staked outside the mine, being burrowed through by vermin and pecked at by carrion birds.
I owe her my life.
Still, that was not the only reason. Even when she was sluggish and dull, he caught her staring at him many times, studying him with unblinking eyes, as if continually evaluating him. But it was not a cold inspection. In the subtle pinch of brow and downturned lips, he recognized a deep sadness. He knew that look. When he was a boy, still an apprentice at the guild, he came across a bony dog that had been half-trampled by an ore cart. It was still alive, but near unto death. Still, he took it to his room in the Guildhall, bundling it up, using a soaked rag to ease its panting thirst. He could not say why he did that, and certainly Llyra, the guildmaster, questioned him, insisting there was nothing he could do. She was proven right a day later. The little cur died in his lap, nose tucked under an arm, but those amber eyes had never looked away from his face, even as the life faded from them. He knew his expression then was not dissimilar to the bronze woman’s now as she contemplated him, some mix of grief and worry rising from a well of tenderness.
So, how could I abandon her?
At times, he even wondered if she was silently emanating some version of bridle-song, entrapping and binding him to her. Or maybe he was romanticizing it all just to cover up the real reason: his own greed. She was undoubtedly of great value and could likely be ransomed for her weight in gold.
Ultimately, no matter the reason, he refused to leave her behind. It was why he had crossed the breadth of Anvil to reach the central square. He lifted his scarfed face to study the windowless towers to the right of the Judgement Hall. It was the city’s main gaol and dungeons.
He headed toward the steps leading to its arched doorway. An iron portcullis stood presently open, its bottom edge lined by sharp spikes, like the fangs of a great beast. He gulped at the sight, unnerved, fearful of being swallowed once again by that monster. Two years ago, he had languished in a hot cell for nearly an entire moon as he was tried and eventually sentenced to the mines of Chalk.
Still, he continued toward the steps.
Can’t be helped.
As he passed behind a soot-blackened statue of the chained god Yyrl, he shed his light-cloak and let it drop behind him. He continued back into view of the square, regaled now in black breeches and tunic, including a matching half-cloak that bore the crossed gold hammers of Anvil. It was the habiliment of a prison gaoler. It had not been hard to acquire. He had simply followed a turnkey into one of the portside’s many whorehouses. Rhaif had waited until the man was grunting in rented passion, then slipped into the room and took what he needed. Not even the bored woman on her hands and knees, skirt around her waist, had heard his soft-footed entrance into the room. Luckily, the years in Chalk had not tarnished his skills to move unseen and unheard.
Still, more skill was needed from here.
Rhaif reached the steps and climbed toward the open portcullis. He finally shed his scarf, knowing faces could not be masked in the gaol. Shortly after arriving in Anvil, he had dyed his hair to a straw-blond, and during the past fortnight, he had grown a crust of beard, presently oiled and also dyed.
Still, as he crossed under the spears of the portcullis, he fought down a shiver, recognizing the irony of his trespass.
After escaping one prison, here I am breaking into another.
S TANDING AT THE bars, Rhaif took in the sight of the gaunt figure inside the cell. It was as if a shadow had been given form, a sculpture of polished ebonwood. The man, who had to be several years younger than his own thirty years, stood with his back to the cell door. He had been stripped naked, except for the collar of iron forged around his neck. His black skin, from buttock to shoulder, bore a map of white scars from the bite of whips. His head was darkly stubbled. He was plainly not allowed to keep his head shaven here, which was typical of the Chaaen, both men and women.
Rhaif glanced right and left to make sure no other gaolers were in this remote corner of the dungeons. “I would speak with you,” he said gruffly, doing his best not to sound conspiratorial.
The man sighed and turned, revealing eyes of a mesmerizing violet—along with a feature unique to the Chaaen. Between his legs was nothing but a tuft of hair and a mutilation. All such men of his order were cut, disfigured into eunuchs. The women were equally marred in their own way, so as to never bear children, to never experience the pleasure of union.
“What do you want?” the Chaaen asked. His voice was calm, showing not the slightest fright, which, considering all he had been through in life, was not surprising. The slight lilt in his voice revealed his Klashean origins.
Rhaif shifted closer to the bars. “Let’s start with your name, so we might know each other better.”
“I am Pratik, chaaen-bound to Rellis im Malsh.”
“And as I understand, your master is also detained here, accused of being a spy for the Southern Klashe.”
Pratik simply stared.
Rhaif, like much of Anvil, had heard of the incarceration of many Klashean traders, brought here to be questioned as spies, which was likely true of most of them. Besides being a major mining port, Anvil had sprouted a score of great alchymical houses, some centuries old, that delved into the design of arcane machines and other geared works. Still, the Southern Klashe far outstripped Anvil’s feeble efforts in such pursuits. Rhaif knew there were just as many, if not more, Hálendiian traders who doubled as infiltrators when they traveled south, seeking to steal knowledge from Klashean establishments. In fact, it was well known in Anvil that the trade in secrets was as important here as its shipment in rock and salt. Coins rolled from north to south and back again. Occasional hands were slapped if there was too much overreach, but in the end, it served all to turn a blind eye upon such clandestine enterprises.
Until now.
Archsheriff Laach had gathered up the Klashean traders for one simple reason: to trap Rhaif in Anvil. Laach could not risk losing the bronze prize stolen from him, especially with the malignant Shrive Wryth clutching the man’s neck. Like Rhaif, the archsheriff knew the northern Crown would offer no refuge for the escaped pair. The only hope for them was to barter for passage to the south. To thwart that, Laach had imprisoned anyone who might strike up such a bargain—both to question them and to keep them locked away from Rhaif.
So, with no other choice, Rhaif had to come to the prison in person to plead his case. Even Laach—bursting with his own high opinion of himself—would never suspect such an attempt.
At least, I hope not.
Pratik finally spoke. “And who are you?” One brow lifted. “Someone I suspect is more than a simple turnkey.”
Rhaif considered how best to answer this. He knew any deception with a Chaaen would likely fail. It was said such men and women knew another’s inner truth with a glance. So, he opted for the truth. “Rhaif hy Albar.”
The only sign of recognition was the lowering of the Chaaen’s one brow. “You risk much, but I fear for little gain. My master will be of little use to you.”
“I didn’t come here for your master.”
Rhaif knew the traders themselves were under much closer watch in the gaol’s upper towers. This was not true for their chaaen-bound, whom most considered little more than slaves. They were barely worthy of note; as such, they had been tossed down into the sparsely guarded dungeons—which suited Rhaif just fine.
Rhaif lifted the heavy circle of iron keys that he had pilfered from the dungeon guardroom. “I came to free you.”
Pratik narrowed his eyes and finally stepped closer. “At what price?”
“To help me escape Anvil in one of your wyndships.”
The prisoner shook his head. “Impossible. Besides, even if I don’t shout and expose you now, my freedom will come eventually. They cannot keep my master for long, not without further offending our emperor. So, as you see, your price is too high.”
“Ah, but that is not all I came to bargain with.” This time Rhaif lifted a brow. “You know what I stole.”
A shrug. “What is rumored that you stole.”
“It is more than a rumor, I assure you.” He let the Chaaen read the truth in his face. “I will take you to her, and if you are dissatisfied, you can turn me in to the archsheriff. But you will not be disappointed. The Klashe will want what I possess, especially with war drums pounding in the distance, with armies gathering at the borders. And who knows? Such a prize may not only earn my freedom—but maybe yours, too.”
Pratik’s eyes narrowed further. The prisoner lifted a hand and fingered the iron ring fused around his neck. His gaze steadied on Rhaif. “Show me.”
Rhaif grinned. It took him a few tries to fit the right key into the lock, but eventually he hauled the door open and tossed a bundle at the naked man. “Put these on quickly.”
Pratik obeyed, slipping on a turnkey’s habiliment that matched his own. Rhaif had stolen it from the same guardroom, where the only gaoler present had been some fat lout snoring at a scarred table.
Rhaif pointed to the half-cloak’s hood. “Pull that high and keep your face low. Let me do the speaking from here.”
With a nod, Pratik tugged the hood over his stubbled head.
Rhaif gave his look a final inspection, then set off. He wanted to be out of here before the next bell, to lose themselves among the gaolers heading home.
He glanced back to Pratik, trying to judge if the Chaaen would betray him, but such men and women were known for their word, not necessarily out of honor, but because any deception had been beaten and whipped out of them long ago.
Rhaif had a hard time swallowing the cruel practices of the Klashe. Their lands were ruled over by a single caste of royalty, known as the imri, which meant godly in their tongue, led by the Imri-Ka, the god-emperor of the Klashe. Only those of his bloodline were allowed to show their faces when abroad in their lands. All other baseborn castes—which numbered in the hundreds—had to remain cloaked from crown to toe, deemed too unworthy for the Father Above to gaze upon them. An admonition that included the Chaaen, who were trained and schooled at Bad’i Chaa, the House of Wisdom.
Where the northern Crown had a half dozen schools, the Bad’i Chaa remained the Southern Klashe’s sole place of learning. It was said the House of Wisdom was a city unto itself. It was divided into nine tiers like the Hálendiian schools, but the House of Wisdom was far crueler. There was also no choice in attending. Young boys and girls were culled from across their lands, from all castes, except the imri. While Hálendiian schools discouraged trysts and unions, demanding purity, the House of Wisdom enforced it beforehand by clipping their firstyears. Worst of all, those who failed to move upward were not simply sent home, but were executed and their bodies burned in the pyres atop the school as both a warning to the tiers below and a sacrifice to the Klashe’s pantheon of gods, who were far more bloodthirsty than those to the north.
As Rhaif reached the stairs leading up from the dungeons, he searched for those years of terror and horror in Pratik’s face, but the man’s features were placid, as if he had accepted such cruelties as a part of life. Then again, the young man had eventually made it through that school, earning the iron collar of alchymy. Other Chaaen bore the silver collar of religion and history. Afterward, those who survived the school were bound in pairs—one wearing iron, the other silver—to one of the imri. The Chaaen served as counselors and advisers to their masters. And sometimes objects of pleasure, as was whispered. In public, ceremonial chains ran from a Chaaen’s neck-collar to his or her master’s ankles. The higher you were ranked among the imri, the more Chaaen were bound to you, the pairs linked from one to another. It was said the Imri-Ka had sixty-six Chaaen chained to him, thirty-three pairs, the same number as their pantheon of gods. Whenever he walked about, he dragged a veritable train behind him.
Rhaif tried to imagine such a sight as he finished the climb out of the cooler depths of the dungeons and back into the swelter of the day. The air became smudged and reeked of burning oil. They passed a few gaolers heading down for their shift, but beyond a grunt or a nod, no one heeded anyone else.
At the top of the steps, Rhaif hissed back at Pratik, “Stay close to my back. Eyes down.”
Ahead, the main hall bustled with turnkeys coming and going, some leading chained prisoners. A handful of red-capped boys darted throughout the throng, whisking messages up and down the towers.
Perfect.
Rhaif led Pratik into the bedlam. He drew them into the flow of gaolers leaving for the day. In short order, the spikes of the portcullis appeared. All was going well until the crowd ahead eddied in confusion. A few shocked voices echoed back to them.
Rhaif shifted to the side to determine the cause of the commotion.
He groaned when he spotted a familiar figure in a gray robe who sported a noose of silver braids around his throat. Shrive Wryth scaled the steps toward the gaol. The rarity of such holy men, especially one traipsing into a prison, had stopped everyone, drawing all eyes. The sea of boys and gaolers parted before the Shrive, both out of respect and fear.
Worst of all, the divide seemed to be aiming straight for Rhaif.
He herded Pratik back, swearing under his breath.
The gods must hate me.
He grabbed the Chaaen’s arm and turned him away. What is Wryth doing here? The answer appeared directly ahead of them as a pair of turnkeys were shoved to either side. Two familiar figures strode forward, the same pair who had damned Rhaif to the mines of Chalk.
Only steps away from Rhaif, Archsheriff Laach waved an arm in greeting toward the gaol gate. “This way, Shrive Wryth!”
The sheriff, seemingly blind to his surroundings, had not even noted Rhaif standing there. Unfortunately, the same could not be said of Laach’s companion. Little escaped the attention of Llyra hy March, the guildmaster of thieves. Her face froze for a breath in shock—then her lips thinned, and her eyes sparkled with dark amusement as she stared over at him.
Rhaif groaned.
The gods definitely hate me.